TO WEAR OR NOT TO wear, that is the question. Erica is at home, standing in front of a full-length mirror, admiring the beautiful blue dress that she was going to wear on The View. Nancy Huffman returned it to her, perfectly altered. She’s meeting Greg in twenty minutes at a restaurant two blocks away. It’s Italian, unpretentious and well lit. She didn’t want some romantic place filled with candlelight and cozy corners. She’s nervous enough as it is.
Yes, the dress is a dream, but does it send the wrong message? Would she be better off going simple—jeans and a white oxford, maybe, with the collar up? As soon as she got home, she washed the spray paint off her face, so maybe she can get away with the dress. It does make her feel . . . desirable. But is she comfortable with that?
She picks up her phone, takes a selfie, and texts it to Moira: IS THIS DRESS TOO MUCH FOR A BUSINESS DINNER?
Within seconds she gets an answer: WITH A MAN?
YES.
HOW ATTRACTIVE IS HE, ON A SCALE OF 1 TO 10?
I DON’T WANT TO GO ON RECORD.
WHICH MEANS HE’S AT LEAST AN EIGHT.
MORE MONEY.
BUSTED! BEAUTY IS POWER. WEAR IT!
As she walks down Fifty-Seventh Street past Carnegie Hall, Erica is glad she took Moira’s advice. The admiring looks she’s getting lift her spirits and her confidence. It was a rough day but a good day, a learning day. Before she left the office, she wrote an e-mail to Claire Wilcox, copying Greg and Nylan:
Hi, Claire—I think it’s worth exploring cyberterrorism as the cause of the ferry crash. Internal IT head Mark Benton thinks it’s a possibility. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help with this story (or any other). Best—Erica
The big leagues are cutthroat. That’s not her favorite way to roll, but if that’s what it takes, she’s in—as long as it’s not at the expense of her integrity. Let Claire have the ferry crash story. It’s a big, chaotic world out there and another important story will come along. And if it doesn’t come along, she’ll go out and find it.
She enters the restaurant and is greeted warmly by the maître d’. Greg is at the small bar and he crosses to her, drink in hand.
“Would it be unprofessional of me to tell you how great you look?”
“Probably—but why don’t you say it again so I can be sure.”
The maître d’ leads them to a table and after they’re seated asks, “May I get the lady something to drink?”
“I’m fine with water for now, thank you.”
“I just read your e-mail to Claire,” Greg says as they open their menus.
“And?”
“I thought it was pitch perfect: helpful and respectful but not obsequious. Have you heard back?”
“Not yet.”
“Claire’s no fool. I predict she’ll take your advice.”
“Mark Benton tells me GNN has a cybersecurity department.”
“So I’ve heard,” Greg says with a sardonic half smile. “It’s very secretive. Nylan is obsessed with all things secretive. And cyber. He believes in something he calls cyberpower, and he thinks it’s going to define the twenty-first century. The man has ambitions that go way beyond GNN.”
“Such as?”
“Well, I’m one of several dozen executive producers at the network, so I’m hardly in his inner circle, but offhand I’d say he’s after world domination. Seriously, I think he craves power on a global scale. He’s thirty-six, he’s made his billions on Universe, he’s gotten GNN up and running. What’s next? I don’t think he wants to get into politics per se, but I think he wants to be a major player behind the scenes.”
“And you think he’s perverse?”
“Under that boyish façade lies a very strange man. I don’t pretend to understand him. But I do know I don’t trust him. Nylan’s main management tool is fear.”
Erica gets a text and takes out her phone. “I know this is rude, but reporters get a pass. . . . It’s from Claire: THANK YOU FOR THE VALUABLE LEAD, TEAMMATE. Fair enough, although I could have done without the ‘teammate.’ What a cliché.”
“With someone like Claire, you’ve got to beat them at their own game.”
“Fool me twice . . .”
“Exactly.”
The waiter comes over and takes their order. Erica goes for a simple angel hair Bolognese, Greg for mushroom ravioli. She also orders an Italian lemon soda.
“So . . . I’ve been thinking about your next move,” Greg says.
“And . . .?”
“In some ways the ferry incident is a mixed blessing. It launched you like a rocket, which is good. Nylan and everyone else at GNN—and all the other networks—know who you are, and that you’re good at what you do. But it does raise the question of how do you top it.”
“I don’t want to get desperate and search for something sensational. I’m a workhorse, Greg, I’m in this for the long haul. I’d like to do some substantive stories even if they don’t blaze across the screen.”
“Good to hear. I’ve seen a lot of smart young reporters so anxious for a hot story that they made stupid mistakes.”
“Like?”
“Not doing your homework is number one. You have to understand what you’re covering. Showing up unprepared for an interview is a close—and closely related—second. Being so aggressive that it backfires is another—if you push too hard, people’s natural instinct is to recoil. It’s really Journalism 101.”
“Still, it’s good to be reminded.”
The restaurant is filling up; everyone looks bright and attractive, leaning toward each other, saying fascinating things. Erica finds the chatter and hum enlivening, inspiring; who cares about food—this city nourishes her. And being here with Greg—savvy Greg—makes her feel a part of it all, a nascent New Yorker.
“If I quoted Shakespeare, would you think I was a pompous jerk?” Greg asks.
“Totally.”
“I just had to make sure. Hamlet tells the actors that ‘in the tempest and whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperament that will give it smoothness.’ ”
“Didn’t you do a little editing?”
“I quit. You’re too good.”
They laugh. “I’m sorry, that was obnoxious of me,” Erica says. “It’s just that my mentor at Yale loved that quote too . . . give it smoothness . . .” The words hang in the air between them.
Their food arrives. Suddenly Erica is famished, and she digs in with gusto.
“How’s the angel hair?” Greg asks.
“Heavenly. Listen, Greg, you know my history because you hired me. I’d like to know more of your story.”
“I don’t want to turn this into a dull dinner.”
“How about I be the judge of that?”
“You have only yourself to blame. Grew up in a small town in western PA. Father mailman. Wants son to follow in footsteps. Son says no way and joins army day he graduates high school. Learns photography. Leaves army. Works as a freelance photographer. In midthirties gets tired of hustling assignments and having roommates. Gets into news business. Works hard. Gets promoted. Makes good money. Is having dinner with recently hired, incredibly attractive reporter.”
“Who thinks he uses irony as a defense.”
“Which only makes her more attractive.”
“Greg, I’m an investigative reporter. I know that you worked as a war photographer during the first Gulf War and then in other hot spots around the world. I’d like to hear about that.”
Greg looks down at the table and something sets in his face, his mouth tightens. “You want to know what that was like? You want to know what it felt like to witness the fog of war, the wanton killing of civilians, the rapes, the piles of rubble where houses once stood and families once lived and where, from under the twisted wreckage, you hear the dying cry for help with their last breaths, where you see a six-year-old boy with his leg just blown off, where you see a mother nursing her infant until a piece of shrapnel decapitates the baby and you still hear her wail when you wake up in a sweat at three a.m.? Is that what you want to know?” Still not looking at Erica, Greg sits back in his chair and exhales. “I’m sorry. That was unfair and unkind.”
Erica waits a moment and then says, “And honest.”
He looks at her, and under the anger she sees loss and bewilderment. “I’ll always be a prisoner of war.”
Just as Erica will always be a prisoner of her childhood. She feels a connection to Greg, something that transcends physical attraction and professional rapport. While she doesn’t equate her traumatic childhood with the horror of war, both she and Greg have seen humanity at its darkest, and have been left scarred.
For a long moment there is really nothing to say. They both eat in silence. And then Erica makes a decision to change the subject.
“So—I’m trying to figure out the best way to approach Kay Barrish. But please keep that under your hat—and don’t let Claire Wilcox anywhere near your head!”
Greg taps his scalp. “Claire-free zone.”
As they eat, they exchange safe banter about the city, politics, movies. They both decline dessert but do order decaf espressos. After the waiter brings the coffees, Greg says, “Now it’s my turn to raise a tough issue.”
“I’m here.”
He puts down his cup and looks her in the eye. “You make no secret of your alcoholism.”
“My firing from WBZ in Boston is public record.”
“Did you feel it was justified?”
“I would have fired me.”
“And you’ve come back.”
“That’s the great silver lining of addiction: if you can beat it—or even wrestle it to a draw—it makes you stronger, more empathetic and open-minded.”
“There might be another silver lining. Like some terrific television.”
“Say more.”
“I’m thinking of an ongoing segment where you interview celebrities and politicians who are also recovering addicts. You could bond with them in a way no other reporter could. I want to make you a star, Erica. Your struggles make you sympathetic.”
“And you think we should exploit them?”
He looks her right in the eye. “I’d use the word leverage, but yes, I do. We may call it the news business, but we all know it’s just as much show business.”
Erica ponders his suggestion for a moment. As opposed to her alcoholism itself, she considers her sobriety sacred and private—it’s a spiritual journey, one that connects her to millions of people fighting the same battle. The idea of parading it in front of the world gives her pause. But she’s no Mary Poppins, and rose-colored glasses give her a migraine.
“If it’s done the right way, I think it would be powerful,” Erica says. “But I’m not interested in TMZ TV. I’m a serious journalist. Who went through a dark period.”
“And you have a daughter.”
“Jenny. Who is completely off-limits.”
The conversation is moving into dangerous territory. Erica looks at her half-empty glass of lemon soda and wishes it had an inch of vodka in it. Instead she takes a sip of her espresso and signals for the check.